


No Deductions During the Flight, Please

by eloquated



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cabinlock, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Kidlock, Martin is the youngest Holmes, One Shot Collection, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-08-29 08:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: It was difficult to believe that this exceptionally tiny person was his brother.A collection of one-shot stories about the Holmes brothers (even when one of them has Crieff on his birth certificate, everyone knows he's a Holmes at heart!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies! This has been rattling around in my brain for weeks, ever since I started listening to Cabin Pressure. 
> 
> Each section should be able to stand on its' own, and I'll update it whenever I need a bit of Cabinlocky goodness! If that appeals to you, then read on!

It was difficult to believe that this exceptionally tiny person was his brother.  

At ten years old, Mycroft Holmes knew where babies came from; three years earlier he’d had to find the information on his own, in preparation for Sherlock’s birth.  The  _ how _ , in fact, had proved much easier to comprehend than the  _ why _ (truthfully, Mycroft was still a little shaky on those details).

But even at seven, he’d known his mother’s carefully constructed stories about storks and cabbage patches couldn’t be true.

Of course, Sherlock had been tiny at the time, too.  But now he was three and tearing about the house, a perpetual motion machine that ran almost exclusively on questions and Ginger Nuts.  Sometimes it was hard to remember that he’d once been this small, this  _ quiet _ .  Or that he’d stared up at his big brother through the side of the cradle with the same bright, blue-green Holmes eyes.

But where Sherlock had been dark, this new creation had Mycroft’s coppery auburn hair, drooping around his tiny, shell-pink ears in soft little curls.

It was all rather strange.  Stranger, even, than the increasingly voluble argument filtering up from the sitting room-- though that was mainly because his parents seemed to do an awful lot of arguing lately.  The sort that lapsed into tight, insincere smiles and barbed looks when Mycroft or Sherlock walked into the room.

_ Affair _ .  Even the word sounded ugly.  

The baby had stopped fussing the moment Mycroft had walked into his makeshift nursery,  Another thing unlike Sherlock, he noted-- the middle brother would have screamed to be rescued. 

And he was ‘the baby’, his name currently in a state of Limbo.  He should be Merryweather on the birth certificate, odd, like all the Holmses.  But his mother had apparently decided he was  _ Martin _ .  It was the sort of name, Mycroft had decided, that you gave to a goldfish; and that it probably was out of spite, like his father had snapped.

“It doesn’t matter what she does to your name.  You’re still a Holmes.” Mycroft told the baby, but Martin-Merryweather Michael Marlowe-- Merry?  He could get used to that-- just stared up at him curiously. “It will seem more important when you’re older.”  He added, feeling just a little silly.

“Important?  Why?” Chirped the voice from behind him, as a mop-top of dark curls popped up beside Mycroft’s hip, his hair all matted down on one side from his pillow.  Sherlock’s tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth, making his lisped words even more difficult to understand. His soft little hands were stained in a multicolour riot from the felt markers he’d been playing with that morning, and Mycroft reached down to catch him before he grabbed onto the cradle.

“Careful, brother mine.  That’s not like your crib was, it moves.”  

Sherlock pulled a face, and allowed himself to be lifted up onto Mycroft’s hip so he could look down at the baby properly, “Small.”  He stated after a curious beat, and leaned down as far as he could to touch one of the baby’s hands. With a surprisingly quick grab, Merry (yes, that would have to stick, Mycroft decided) caught Sherlock’s fingers and held on tight, sending the precariously leaning toddler into a fit of giggles.  “Mycie- Mycie looks!” He chimed, and wiggled his fingers to try and ‘escape’ his new little brother.

Downstairs, the sounds of the four adult argument seemed to be picking up volume.  Words like ‘custody’ and ‘support’ and ‘reasonable compensation’ filtered up the stairs and settled like stones in Mycroft’s belly.  He knew another word, too: leverage. That was the only reason Wendy Crieff had shown up at their door, obviously pregnant and demanding money a few months before.

Things had been tense around Musgrave ever since.

And now the baby was here.

“And it’s important because he’s our brother, and even if he doesn’t live here, he should know that.”  Mycroft explained, his arms straining with the effort of holding Sherlock up, and steady. It was easier said than done, Sherlock was the wriggliest child in the world!  “And we have to help take care of him, just like I do with you.”

Apparently bored of Sherlock’s fingers, Merry scrunched up his face with a whine and tried to stuff his brother’s hand into his mouth.  “Mycie! He eating me!” Sherlock trilled delightedly, kicking his feet against Mycroft’s thigh.

And  _ oh _ , the world wasn’t ready for two Sherlock’s!  That was one thing Mycroft was very sure of!

“Don’t kick, Lockie!  Down on your feet, now.  He’s probably... Hungry.”  It was a guess, but Mycroft mentally crossed his fingers and hoped it was right.  He didn’t actually want to change nappies if he didn’t have to, and interrupting their parents right now?  Well, it seemed like a bad idea. Besides, he was drooling over Sherlock’s hand-- surely that sounded like hungry?

The question was-- where was he going to get a bottle?

Taking his brothers downstairs was begging for their parent’s attention, and if the volume was any indication, they wouldn’t appreciate the interruption.  Furrowing his brow, Mycroft bit his tongue to hold back an word he’d heard his father use a great deal recently, and which he wasn’t supposed to repeat. 

“Lockie--”  Not seeing much other option, Mycroft tapped his brother’s shoulder to get his attention, “I’m going to run down to the kitchen as fast as I can.  And I need you to keep the him company, right? Don’t pick him up!” He added hastily, and wished he could send Sherlock to get the bottle. It seemed like the easier option, but that usually meant his little brother would find some way to turn it upside down.

Or he’d just come back with a handful of biscuits and no bottle at all.

“You just have to talk to him, and it’s alright if he fusses, because I’ll be right back.  Can you do that for me?” Sherlock paused to consider it, bright eyes flickering from Mycroft to Merry and back again.  “Yup!” He chirped finally.

His million megawatt grin only encouraged Mycroft to run that little bit faster.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Holmes boys are inflicted on some Christmas carols.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So I finally finished Cabin Pressure yesterday, and the boys demanded that I give them some attention. 
> 
> Apparently Lock and Mycie dislike the idea of... well, I won't spoil the ending! Instead, on to the fic!

This was going to be  _ dreadful,  _ Mycroft was completely certain of it.  The small rented hall had been done up in Christmas tinsel and green plastic garlands that only looked realistic if you didn’t get too close, and the wide open space had been filled with mostly neat rows of stacking chairs. It was, he supposed, meant to look festive-- but he could freely admit that the holiday season was a little lost on him.

And this certainly wasn’t helping matters any!  With a tight huff, Mycroft resisted the urge to tug on the red tie his mother had decided would be ‘just the thing!’, and ‘didn’t he look smart!’. As if any twelve-year-old ginger boy in the history of the world had ever looked good in poppy red.  His protests had fallen on predictably deaf ears, while Sherlock had giggled from behind the couch like a wicked little imp.

Brothers, Mycroft thought, were a trial.

“Mycie, look!”  Sherlock chirruped from his side, one small mittened hand grasping Mycroft’s like a lifeline (and for all he wanted to be cross at everything in the world, his brother’s enthusiasm was endearing).  With his free hand the little boy pointed to the piano at the front of the room, set in ‘place of pride before the rows of chairs. Mycroft knew from experience that it would be scarred, the keys yellowed in places from years of student’s grubby fingers.  “I see, Lockie.” He promised, even though, truthfully, he didn’t appreciate the reminder.

Mycroft didn’t enjoy playing for anyone, his parents included.  And brothers excluded, but that was only because he could use it to put them to sleep when they were being particularly troublesome!

“Alright boys; Sherlock, dear, let me help you with you hat- oh!  Your curls are a mess, honestly, I don’t know what to-- Mycroft, you’re going to have to sit up at the front with the other- you do have your sheet music, yes?”  His mother looked frazzled as she tried to help Sherlock out of his jacket, while he crossed his arms and refused to cooperate. It might, Mycroft thought, have something to do with the ‘adorable’ reindeer sweater their Aunt Rosemary had sent him, and which he he despised at first sight.

Sherlock sulked, his curls sticking out at wild angles once they’d been freed from under his hat.  “I don’t  _ want _ to sit here.  I want to sit with Mycie.”  He protested, and shoved his mittened hands deep into the pockets of his coat with a mutinous glare.  At almost five, his little brother had very decisive ideas about how the world should work, and the last thing Mycroft wanted was a tantrum of Sherlockian proportions.

Time to step in.

“Lockie..”  Mycroft sighed, and sank down to a knee in front of his brother, careful not to get anything on his trousers, “You have to sit here, those are the rules.  And who’s going to explain them to Merry when he wakes up?” He said in a low, conspiratorial whisper, and narrowly managed not to smile when Sherlock looked over at their baby brother, asleep against his father’s chest.

At least one weekend a month.

Holidays.

Two months over the summer. 

In exchange, Mycroft knew his father paid generously for the privilege of having his own son in his life.  It all seemed monstrously unfair, but he was here now; all skinny legs dangling at their father’s side, and curly ginger hair tickling under his chin.  And it was hard for Mycroft to be properly annoyed when Martin had come home that morning, and would be spending the next few weeks with them. 

“Siger, dear, pass him over to me while you get your coat--  _ William Sherlock Scott, _ your chair is right here, and if you don’t park your bottom, young man, we’re going to have words when we get home.”

Mycroft crimped his mouth together to hide a smile at his mother’s flustering, and rested his free hand securely on Sherlock’s shoulder, just in case the sprightly and all too curious child decided to wander off anyway (goodness knows it wouldn’t be the first time!)  “The music is going to start soon, Lockie, then it’ll be more fun.” He added in a conspiratorial whisper, “And we have to sit nice and quiet, otherwise we won’t be able to hear it.”

Sherlock swung his booted feet for a sulky moment, his brow creasing as he obviously tried to decide if he was going to behave.. Or not.  “Soon, Mycie? You promise?” He lisped, and batted Mycroft’s sheet music aside so he could rest his head against his brother’s thigh, “Really promise?”  

“I really promise.  And Mummy said you could start lessons when you’re five, so you need to find an instrument you like, remember?  You should be listening for something you want to play.” 

That, apparently, did the trick.  With a look of  _ Oh yes, of course! _  Sherlock sat up straight in his chair, curly head raised as high as he could, so he could see over the rows of adults.  Well, Mycroft thought with amusement, at least it would keep him occupied for a little while.

“Myc, we’ve got this under control here, dear.  You need to sit up at the front with the other students.”  With a slowly waking two-year-old in her lap, his mother tugged Mycroft down to smooth her free hand over his hair, shooing a few staticky, flyaway strands behind his ear.  

He quickly pulled away before she could lick her fingers-- honestly!  It wasn’t as if he was a toddler anymore himself!

With a yawn that seemed to large for his little face, Martin blinked sleepily up at his family and snuggled a little more closely into Violet’s chest, “Mycie, go!”  He giggled, and beamed his sunny smile up to his brother. 

“Yes, that’s right, you listen to Merry!  Off with you, we’ve got things perfectly handled here.”

One by one the other families filtered into the hall, the air smelling of damp wool coats and the drafts of cold air that escaped in whenever the doors opened.  Chairs scuffed and rattled as they tried to make themselves comfortable, and Mycroft wondered if they were as unhappy to be here as he was. Certainly some of them pretended better than others!  Dozens of fixed and tired smiles on the parents, and the sickly nervous grimaces on their children’s.

Most of them were holding their sheet music to their chests like shields, and Mycroft quickly sat down to tuck his into his lap.  Just because he didn’t  _ enjoy _ playing for people didn’t mean he was scared!  He wasn’t. The queasy feeling in his stomach, he was absolutely sure, was some fault of the dinner he’d barely picked at.  

It seemed like half of Hartfield had gathered for the Christmas concert by the time Madame Sibyll swept to the front to begin the program.

For a few minutes, everything went to plan.  

One by one the children made their way to the front of the room to play; their faces pinched with anxiety and fingers stiff as they moved across keys, strings and brass as they picked out mostly legible approximations of Christmas classics.  

And then it happened.

“Mycie!”  Hissed a small voice from under his chair, and Mycroft winced, “ _ Mycie!” _  Looking down, he saw the two small heads peeking up from the dusty floor, one bright copper and the other ink black.  “What are you two doing here!?” He whispered under his breath, and winced as the Madame arched a sharp eyebrow in his general direction. Oh, how had both of them managed to sneak away already?  It was inconceivable!

“We can’t hear anything from way way way back there!”  Sherlock lisped and crawled out from under his brother’s chair, flashing Mycroft a look that the elder brother had privately named ‘ _ are you an idiot?’  _ but which was very rarely directed at him!  Covered in fine grey dust, Sherlock tugged Martin with him, both of their clothes and curls streaked with grime.

They looked thoroughly pleased with themselves!

Trying to walk them back to their parents was just asking for trouble, Mycroft sighed, resignedly to himself-- the sort of trouble that would be loud, and disruptive, and draw a lot of unwanted attention.  “Alright.” He hissed under his breath, and fixed the boys with his most stern expression, “But you have to sit silently and listen to the music.”

Silently, two curly heads bobbed in unison, to the accompaniment of the braying clarinet player at the front of the room.

Wordlessly (and Mycroft didn’t for a minute believe that would last long!) Martin scrambled up into Mycroft’s lap, installing himself against his chest with the surety of a baby brother who knows what he wants.  And grinningly knows that he’s going to get it.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had decided earlier in the week that he was far too old for laps anymore!  And he dropped down cross legged on the floor, leaning back against Mycroft’s shins like they were his own personal backrest.  

At his side, Lauren Cooper, her blonde hair done up in curls, tried to stifle a giggle behind her hand.  Mycroft did his best to ignore her, even when she tried to coo over Sherlock and Martin in the gap between musicians.  Well, he tried, anyway. It wasn’t quite that easy.

“Don’t touch him.”  Mycroft interjected when she reached over to brush the dust from Sherlock’s curls, and his little brother tried to skitter back without actually moving away from his big brother, resulting it a pretzeled tangle of skinny limbs, “He doesn’t like people touching his hair.”  He amended, and rested his own hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“ ‘Cept Mycie.   _ Only _ Mycie.”  Sherlock corrected his brother, and looked up over his shoulder with a slanted grin.  “And Merry.  _ Sometimes. _ ”  The sibilant S-sounds passing his lips with a lisped Th, rounding the edges and taking some of the attempted authority out of them.  

Lauren smiled, and Sherlock scowled.

Mycroft knew he would be smudged with dust when he went to take his place behind the piano.  

He knew it would be a miracle if his brothers managed to sit through the concert without causing any more mischief.

But maybe he’d been just a little nervous before.

And with Martin draped across his lap, toying with the end of his tie, and Sherlock drumming his fingers on the floor to keep the melody of the music?

He wasn’t anymore.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to know what Mycroft played for the recital, you can check out the video that partially inspired this scene (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2IBGlDJ3lg) It's the Piano Guys' rendition of 'I Saw Three Ships'. 
> 
> As always, hop down into the comments and stick around for a chat!


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick interlude, in which there is much confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up this morning with about half of this running through my head, so of course I had to dash out of bed to write it down before I forgot.
> 
> Oh the glamorous life of a writer!

“Mum-mum-mum- _ mum! _ ”  Arthur’s voice echoed down through the main cabin, punctuated with the sound of his feet striking the threadbare carpet.

“Arthur!  Yes, I can hear you.  What  _ is it _ ?”  She replied, looking up sharply from where she’d been taking inventory of the galley, a clipboard tucked against one hip.

“Well, you know how you said I shouldn’t watch Roger Rabbit, yeah?  Because you said it was going to give me bad dreams? Only I did, and it didn’t, and I’m really glad I did because otherwise I might not have realized that Martin’s in trouble with some  _ weasels!   _ I mean, gangsters!”

Carolyn blinked slowly, waiting for the disordered series of little facts (and she only very loosely referred to them that way) to order themselves into something like a cohesive statement.  One day, she was certain, she would stop being surprised when things like this happened.. But that day, quite clearly, was not today.

“Arthur.  Whatever you saw, I’m quite certain--”

“No, but he is, Mum!  I saw him leaving GERTI and waiting outside looking really odd, Mum, and then this really, really nice car pulled up-- and it’s the sort of car that only really posh people drive, because Tippy’s dad had one-- and then Martin got in and they drove away!”

“Arthur.  Dear. I can think of a dozen reasons off the top of my head why Martin might be getting into a nice car.  And believe me, in trouble with the law is at the very,  _ very _ end of that list.  Now if it was Douglas?  Perhaps. But Martin is the least likely person in the world to make those sorts of mistakes. Now give me a hand with this inventory.”

…

“Carolyn…”

Douglas’ voice didn’t echo like Arthur’s did, mainly because he was leaning in the doorway of her very small office, looking decidedly unsure about the reason for his visit.  Carolyn looked up and folded her hands tidily on the blotter, one eyebrow arched as she fixed him with an expectant look. 

Anything that made Douglas Richardson look like a naughty schoolboy sounded like just the tonic for her rather dull afternoon.

“You know Arthur’s story about Martin and the mafia…”

“I’ve tried to forget it, but go on.”

“Only, I was visiting a very old friend of mine over the weekend, and he lives in a very respectable part of Knightsbridge--”

“I wasn’t aware there was a  _ dis _ respectable part of Knightsbridge, given that you practically have to be a millionaire or a peer of the realm to live there.”

“Quite...Well, you know I don’t put any stock in Arthur’s tall tales, but it was a very nice car and it happened to catch my eye.  And I have to say, Martin was the last person I expected to see getting out of the back.”

“Martin?  Our Martin?”  Carolyn blinked, and briefly wondered if she might need to get her hearing checked after all.  She wasn’t old enough to be worried about such things, of course! But one could never be too careful, especially when you’d spent most of your adult life going up and down in aeroplanes.

Douglas shifted his weight and nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Indeed. With a man in a Saville Row suit, and a Crombie overcoat that, I’m not ashamed to say, would be too pricey for even my wardrobe.  And, quite obviously, men who shop at Gieves and Hawkes do not, in fact, spend their evenings with Martin Crieff.”

“No..”  Carolyn agreed slowly, her eyebrow dropping back into place because that wasn’t nearly as amusing as she’d hoped.  Hearing it from Arthur was one thing, but Douglas? 

Suddenly, it had a terrible feeling of truth in it.

…

“Morning Carolyn, morning Arthur-- Douglas.”  Martin looked rather cheery as he brushed the snow off his ridiculously ornamented hat and perched it back on his head.

“Oh Skip!  If you were in trouble, you should have said something!  We’d have helped! We would! You didn’t need to go to the weasels!”

It was, Martin was starting to suspect, going to be one of those days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and if you have any ideas for things you'd like to see with the Holmes lads, just leave me a note below!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are Christmas miracles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the Christmas special between Cabin Pressure season 2 and 3, "Molokaʻi". 
> 
> Also, coincidentally, between season 2 and 3 of Sherlock!

“Inspired by Carolyn’s choice of in-flight movie.. Unfortunate names.”  Douglas suggested from where he was lounging back in the co-pilot’s chair, rolling a small square of rather sad cheddar between his fingers.  Flights around the holidays were always a source of depression-- nobody wanted to spend Christmas stuck on a plane (well, sometimes Douglas wondered if Martin might be the single mad exception to that hard and fast rule).  

And flights over the Atlantic, the endless stretch of blue stretching out below them like it had some personal vendetta against the land, were even worse.

“Hm?  Oh -ah- I’m not sure… What do you have?”  Martin pulled himself back from his reverie with a sharp snap, reality asserting itself with a violent and almost tangible jerk.  He knew he hadn’t been at his best that flight… No, if he was being honest, it had been longer than that. But with the holiday so close and…

He wasn’t coping as well as he’d hoped.

“Martin, are you entirely certain you’re alright?”  Douglas pushed, one arched eyebrow half visible under the edge of his hat.  

“Yes yes, fine!  Just… Well, Christmas.”

“I thought you hated Christmas.”

Martin sighed, the sound dragged up from the pit of his stomach and collapsing across his lips, “I do.  Really, it’s a lot of commercial.. Well, you know what it’s like. But everywhere I look, there’s pictures of happy families and carols on the radio, and.. Well…”

Douglas cracked a smile that wasn’t really a smile, more like a commiserating slant to his mouth.  It could turn sardonic in an instant, Martin knew from experience; but apparently even Douglas had decided there needed to be some kind of holiday armistice, since they were both going to be trapped on the flight deck for the foreseeable future.  “It does rather put our lives into perspective. I’m going to spend Christmas in _Newfoundland_ , of all places, when I’d much rather be back in England.”

“With your daughter?”  Martin guessed, and felt only marginally better when Douglas nodded resignedly in confirmation.

Beneath the constant, protesting drone of GERTI’s engines the silence between the two men was oddly comfortable.  Neither of them was entirely sure how to further the conversation, and neither particularly wanted to spend their Christmas dwelling on things that were entirely out of their power.  

It was Martin who finally broke the quiet.  “It was my brother.” He wasn’t sure how much longer he could have choked back the words anyway.  It felt like they’d been sitting on his chest, compressing his lungs for weeks. His brother. _His brother_.  His brother all over the news, face plastered on glossy magazine covers, and Martin didn’t know how to stop looking.

“Simon?”  Douglas asked with a hum, his body shifting slightly in his chair.  Of course he’d known something had happened, even Carolyn had been unable to summon her usual barbed wit when Martin had asked time off.  

Family emergency.  Sorry. Please don’t make me talk about it.  

Please don’t make me face the fact that I’m never going to see him again.

“Simon?  Oh, no.. He’s fine.  Great, in fact. Mum keeps bragging about his promotion.”  

“I didn’t know you had another brother.”  

“Two.  Half brothers… It’s a bit of a long story.  They’re older. Mycroft and--”

And-

**_And..._ **

Martin jolted when Douglas’ hand crossed the space between their chairs and settled for a warm moment on his shoulder.  He couldn’t remember the last time they’d done that, touched; usually the two feet were like a demilitarized zone, crossed only by the occasionally tidbit from the cheese tray, or an enterprising Arthur that never seemed to notice when he was trodding on personal space.

He couldn’t help but he grateful for the human contact.  The last person to touch him was Violet… his other Mummy… her arms crushed around him at the funeral when she made him promise to be careful.  

She couldn’t lose him, too.

Martin wasn’t sure he had ever been more grateful for the satcom’s interruption.  The jangling ring of it cut through the quiet, and with a jerky snap of his wrist he answered the incoming call.  Mouth open to give the usual address, Martin found the words dying on his tongue as an impatient voice clipped across the line, crackling slightly with static.

“Martin?”

“ _Mycroft?_ ”  His brother was good, but Martin didn’t think he was actually psychic enough to have known they were talking about him!  Of course, it wouldn’t actually surprise him, either. From the corner of his eye, Martin could see Douglas’ eyebrows vanish beneath the brim of his hat curiously.  Well of course he would be, Martin thought-- mysterious big brothers don’t often appear when summoned.

“Happy Christmas, Merry… I only have a moment before my meeting, but I’ll have a car waiting for you in Grand Falls when you arrive.  I didn’t want you wandering off to whatever appalling little rat trap you’ve been intending to stay in tonight.”

“Of course- wait- _what?!_ ”  Martin’s voice broke and he heard Douglas’ undisguised snort of amusement, “Myc, what are you--!”

“What I _am_ , is rather busy.  I’ll be leaving St. John’s as soon as my meeting is over, Merry, but in the meantime I’m certain you remember my driver?”

“Well, yes.. But Mycroft, what are you _doing_ in Canada?!  Mummy is going to _kill you_ , and--!”

“I’ll tell you tonight.  I’ll see you soon, Merry.  And Happy Christmas to you as well, Mr. Richardson.”

Martin was still staring at the satcom panel when the call disconnected, blinking slowly when the bright red LED switched off.  

“Merry?”  Douglas prompted, his voice lilting in such a way that indicated that he’d want more information.  And that he had no intention of forgetting a single instant of that very intriguing conversation!

“I.. Unfortunate names.”  Martin’s voice cracked, and his fingers curled into his palm for a tense moment as he tried to find his breaking voice.  “Merryweather Michael Marlowe. My mother changed it to Martin when she filed for my… Unfortunate names. Virtually everyone on the Holmes side of the family. It’s tradition.”

…

It was too dark to see the way the water finally succumbed to the earth, but the bright lights of Grand Falls lured them in to land.  Martin couldn’t remember anything of the closing procedures, his mind switching to auto pilot-- and he was too distracted to register his own pun.  

What was Mycroft doing here?  And why was he coming to see him?  Martin didn’t think he could stand any more bad news.  He couldn’t even cope with Sherlock’s-- with his-- he wouldn’t do what the newspapers kept saying, and he didn’t understand why Mycroft hadn't made them stop!

“Ah, Merry.  Finally. I was starting to think that our _dear_ brother had sent me to the wrong airport.”

Slowly, Martin turned around, and nearly stumbled off Gerti’s bottom step.  

Sherlock Holmes had never been quick to hug.  But when his little brother’s stunned expression crumpled into tears, he made an exception.

And yes, they would have explanations to give, and apologies to make.  

But in that moment, his face pressed into the familiar woolen Belstaff, Martin only cared about one thing, “You’re alive.. Oh God, _how_... Sherlock, you’re _alive.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And swing down into the comments for a chat, I love meeting other cabinlock fans!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Holmeses go swimming!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's been a hot second since I've updated this collection, but I've started relistening to Cabin Pressure again, and it's inspired a few little bits! (Now I just have to get them down on paper!)

“Mycroft, please… I know this isn’t how you planned to spend your afternoon, but your brothers are--”  With a sigh, Mummy Holmes motioned to the back door, through which they could see the two boys sprawled miserably on the patio, taking advantage of a few stray inches of shade. 

Clearly, Sherlock had given up on his attempt to fix the sprinkler.

“It would only be for a few hours, and your father could give you a lift back from the pool after he’s finished at work.”  She added, trying to sweeten the offer.

Of course, considering the  _ request _ (since Mycroft was very clear on what it actually was!)  involved walking his two little brothers the mile into Hartfield, and then wrangling them into, and out, of the pool? Not to mention the undeniable fact that the mercury was threatening to escape the top of the thermometer?  Well, it needed a little sweetening!

More than that --  _ pool _ .  Which implied swimming trunks, since Merry (with his ear condition, and the fact that he was only four) was just too small to go in alone.  And Sherlock, despite being seven, and able to swim like a fish, certainly couldn’t be trusted! Not if they wanted to ever be allowed back again.

Mycroft dithered for a long moment, looking from his brothers, to the book in his lap, and back again.  Well, it wasn’t as though he’d been able to focus on it, anyway. “Fine… yes, alright. I’ll take them.”

…

“Lock, no running!”  Mycroft exclaimed through the neck of his t-shirt as he tried to wrench it into place with one hand, and fix the drawstring on his youngest brother’s suit with the other, “Merry, just hold on one second, let me--”

“Lock! Wait!”  Merry cried out instead, his little feet slapping on the damp tiles as he darted after Sherlock.  It wasn’t right, Sherlock couldn’t leave without him, even if there were other children around! He wouldn’t leave him!

  
“Blast it- Merry, come back here before you end up with your suit around your knees!”  Freeing himself from the twisted shirt, Mycroft scooped Merry up into his arms, just before the cheeky toddler escaped out onto the sunny deck.  His skinny legs pinwheeled with giggles, and the absolute faith that Mycroft wouldn’t actually drop him.

His big brother wasn’t quite so sure!

“One second, then you can go out!  Lock will be fine for the half minute it takes us to get ready.”  Sometimes, Mycroft thought he should have been born with extra arms.  It would have been some sign of an intelligent design! “And you have to stay in the shallow end, you know that.  Until you can swim a little better.” He added for good measure, and planted Merry on his feet so he could tie up his suit.

“Mycroft stay with, though… right?”  

“Of course.  And Lock will come play with us, once he’s proven he doesn’t actually  _ need _ me to watch him.”

Merry giggled and shook his head, “Silly Lock!”

“Very silly.  But smart Merry.”

Well, they might be trouble, but really… Mycroft wouldn’t actually trade them for anything.

***

“Look, Matt!  A blubbersaurus!”  

“Better not let him into the pool, he’ll push all the water out!”

The two boys at the edge of the pool, tanned nut brown and cackling with laughter, jabbed their fingers in Mycroft’s direction.  Self consciously, he tugged the hem of his t-shirt a little lower, trying to push their voices out of his mind.

He wasn’t sure why he thought it would work.  It certainly never had before. Since he’d turned fourteen he’d even lost weight, but not enough… He wasn’t sure it would ever be enough.  Not when he was ginger and freckly, too! 

But he was smart, and that had to count for something!  Because if it didn’t, then what did that say about him? 

From the edge of the pool, he watched Merry bouncing around the shallow end with a little girl, about his own age, with dark hair in lopsided braids.  They seemed to be having a brilliant time, splashing and laughing, and Mycroft grit his teeth and tried to focus on that. 

It didn’t work, either.   

Better to look out for Sherlock, and.. “Oh no.”  With a sinking sense of dread, Mycroft caught sight of his brother (and hadn’t he just been trying to climb onto a floating mat a moment before?!) stomping down the deck towards the bullies, his jaw tight and set into a fixed line.  “Lock-  _ Sherlock-- Wait! _ ”

Even mentally mapping out the edge of the pool, Mycroft knew there was no way he could reach his brother before Sherlock got to them.

“You!”  Sherlock’s voice pitched, and he crossed his skinny arms over his chest, “You sound like hyenas and smell twice as bad!  Leave my brother alone!”

At least, that’s how it was supposed to end.  

With a nasty sneer, the taller of the two boys lunged forward and pushed Sherlock off the slippery edge of the deck.  His arms flailed out, grasping at the air, before he tumbled headlong off the side and into the deep end of the pool. 

Mycroft’s heart lurched as the water splashed, shock making Sherlock slow to react, and the surprise black flop knocking the breath out of his lungs. “Merry, don’t move!”  He called over his shoulder, and missing the look of concern on the children’s faces.

And without a second thought, Mycroft dove off the edge, ignoring the sudden coldness of the water as he pushed off the side.  The sun reflected off the surface, glittering brightly and leaving spots behind his eyelids when he ducked under the water, both arms outstretched to clasp his brother hard.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you!” Breathing hard with the jolt of adrenaline and the sprint through the water, Mycroft swam them both, spluttering and coughing, back to the deck.  “Hold onto the edge, you’re alright now.. Just a little waterlogged, right, Captain?”

Sherlock gasped a breath and scrubbed the water out of his eyes with the back of his hand, “Aye aye!”  He promised, and cracked a wobbly attempt at his bravest grin, “Couldn’t let them insult you. Only I get to do that.”

***

They’d only just managed to climb their way back up onto the deck when a firm, borderline furious voice cut through the sounds of laughing children and splashing water.  One arm around Sherlock’s shoulders (as, much to their mutual surprise, he seemed singularly disinterested in detaching from his big brother’s side) Mycroft looked around, and spotted an older teen storming down the deck towards their tormentors.

It was more than a little gratifying to see the look of “ _ We’re screwed” _ plastered on their faces. 

But Mycroft didn’t have much time to enjoy it, before realizing that the older boy-- man-- he had to be a few years older than Mycroft-- was being flanked by two small figures.

One little girl with braids.  And the other, a boy with ginger curls and a smattering of freckles across his nose.

“Merry!”  Sherlock exclaimed with a grin; but he only waved his baby brother over, instead of leaving Mycroft’s side to drag him up to them.  Mycroft knew it wouldn’t last, and Lock would be back to his usual state-- constant motion, forward and loud-- before they got home.  Still, for a moment it was… 

Mycroft pushed that thought away for the moment, and scooped Merry up in his other arm, when the baby of the family lifted his hands to be picked up.  “We got help!” He explained, a proud grin on his face, “Sarah brother come help.”

With no small amount of disbelief, Mycroft and Sherlock watched the tall boy grab his brother’s by the arms, a thundercloud expression on his face.  In no uncertain terms, they were frogmarched off to the change rooms, and even from a distance, the Holmes boys could hear the low, muttered warnings that spoke of the trouble they’d be in if they didn’t behave.

“Too right.”  Sherlock huffed, and tightened his fingers more securely in the soaked drape of Mycroft’s t-shirt, “Stupid pillocks.”

For once, Mycroft didn’t have the heart to remind him about language around Merry.

***

Later, Sherlock would claim that it was the promise of ice cream that lured him away from the pool.  It certainly had nothing to do with being afraid, because he was a pirate! And pirates weren’t afraid of swimming pools.  

They just weren’t.

For his part, Merry was just excited to be out with his brothers, and walked along between them with the pride of a toddler allowed to play with the big boys.  

The worst of the afternoon heat was starting ebb by the time they’d gotten dried and changed, and were outside waiting for their father to come pick them up.  Well, Mycroft was waiting; Sherlock and Merry were attempting to tightrope their way across the low cement dividers, without spilling their treats.

“Um… hey.  Hi.” Came an awkward voice from behind him, and Mycroft half turned to see the other man from the pool, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting his weight between his feet.  It made him look a little younger. “Sorry about them, my brothers, in there. It’s like we take them out of London and they figure they’re allowed to act like monkeys. Not that it makes it alright- it doesn’t!  Just.. Wanted to make sure your brother was ok.”

Mycroft knew he was blushing, but God, he hoped it just looked like sunburn!

“He’s fine… A little wiser about the fights he picks, I could hope.  But to be honest, I’m not going to hold my breath.” He replied, and toyed with the plastic cap on his water bottle.  

The man huffed a sheepish laugh, and rubbed the back of his neck again, “Yeah, he seemed like a brave one.  I’m Greg… by the way. Lestrade.” He added, and with a brief, fumbling moment of uncertainty, held his hand out just a little too quickly.

“Mycroft Holmes.. And thank you.  For dealing with them in there.” 

“My job, innit?  Got to take care of the people who-- not that you can’t!  Bloody hell.. I mean the kids, you know?” 

From the corner of his eye, Mycroft caught sight of his father’s car bumping over the curb and into the parking lot.  “I know exactly what you mean.. It was nice to meet you, but that’s my ride.”

It had been, Mycroft thought as he chivvied his brothers into the car, not such a bad afternoon after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, swing down into the comments for a little Cabinlock chat!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Numbers had always made sense to Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a bit since I've updated, but here are two shorter (but related) bits! 
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely people on the Cabin Pressure discord chat, because they're amazing!

**1. > Greater Than**

“My-cie!  Lo-ckie! My-cie!  Lo-ckie!” 

Martin’s chirping trill sounded from his carseat, the four-year-old swinging his feet along to his little song.  It was uncomfortably warm in the back of the car, and Martin was entirely bored of all this driving-- singing made it all a little less dull!

Sherlock, on the other hand, wanted none of it.  He was thoroughly cross after being woken early, and with a grumbling  _ harrumph _ , he clamped his hands over his ears, “Be  _ quiet _ , Merry!  I can’t think with you being loud!”

This, Mycroft was sure, was why family trips to the seashore were only good on paper.  The back of the family car was packed to capacity; with Martin’s booster seat wedged in between his brothers, and the boot crammed with their luggage.

They’d only been in the car for just over an hour, but it felt like a year!  

And all that was before they’d have to cope with their maternal Aunt Rosemary and cousin Giles at the other end.  What a Hellish way to spend his summer holidays! 

Especially when it seemed like half the country had had precisely the same idea, and the drive to Bristol had been molasses slow with traffic.  

“You could try reading, Lock.”  Mycroft suggested, and bit back a sigh when his brother shot him back a venomous look.

“Can’t.  I’ll be sick all over you.” 

Nobody was quite sure if that was meant to be a threat, or a reminder; and for half a mile, the inside of the car was dedicatedly quiet.  It seemed the wiser than asking Sherlock to clarify-- his mood was foul enough without giving him an opening for a proper strop!

“Why don’t you boys play a game?”  

From the middle, Martin perked up, clapping his hands with excitement, “Ok Mummy!”  He beamed, his whole expression lighting up. At least someone in the car was dedicatedly impervious to Sherlock’s dark cloud.  “What game?”

The beat of silence dragged on just a moment too long; enough that Sherlock had sat up a little straighter, and Mycroft was certain their mother hadn’t actually thought that through as well as she aught to have.

“Fizz Buzz.”

“Fizz Buzz?”  Three voices said in confused unison, Sherlock and Mycroft exchanging a look over the top of Martin’s curly ginger head.  It was a clear sign of how bored they were, that the question wasn’t followed with dismissal-- after all, it was clearly made up, and even Martin was old enough to know when his parents were trying to pacify him!

“Yes.  You count up.  For every multiple of three, you say Fizz, and for every multiple of five you say Buzz.”

“Mummy, that’s too  _ hard _ for Merry-”  Sherlock began to interject with a huff, his voice slightly compressed from the way he’d slouched angrily down in his seat.

“1, 2, Fizz, 4, Buzz, Fizz, 7, 8, Fizz, Buzz, 11, Fizz, 13, 14, Fizz Buzz!”

Silence fell in the car, as all eyes-- save for Father’s, who was rightfully focusing on the road-- turned to the giggling toddler in the middle seat.  “And what comes after that, Merry?” Mummy prompted, trying not to sound too surprised (a lesson she’d learned from her middle boy, who had contrarily refused to reply to questions like that when he was small!).

Merry squirmed in his seat, his curly head propped on his small hand, “16, 17, Fizz, 19, Buzz, Fizz, 22, 23, Fizz, Buzz, 26, Fizz, 28, 29, Fizz Buzz, 31, 32, Fizz, 34, Buzz, Fizz!”  He rattled off, and paused-- his round face fixed in a perfectly innocent expression as he waited for praise.

“ _ Well _ …”  Mummy blinked, and Mycroft mutely squeezed his baby brother’s hand in silent reassurance.  Even Sherlock had the good grace to look curiously intrigued by Martin’s new trick.

“Play again, Mummy?”

 

**2. < Less Than**

“Merry?”

Mycroft had known that his youngest brother would be coming home that weekend-- it was one of the reasons he’d chosen to spend his reading break at his parent’s, instead of at university.  But he hadn’t expected to find the seven-year-old curled up in the corner of the library, his expression a picture of childish desolation.

With a miserable sniffle, Merry… Martin… It was confusing, and Simon and Caitlin always got so  _ cross _ about it… Sat up a little straighter and tried to scrub the tears from his eyes, dampening the back of his shirt sleeve.  “M-m-mycie--” 

How was he supposed to tell his big brother about this?  He was going to be so  _ disappointed _ , just like his mum was!  She’d taken one look at his test, and the big red F at the top, and gone a peculiar colour of red that usually meant she wanted to yell-- but wasn’t going to.

And he’d tried so hard, he had!  He really had!

If he wasn’t smart enough, maybe they wouldn’t let him come stay with them anymore?  Martin liked being with the Holmes side of his family, and his brothers that played with him, and he felt special here.

But the Holmeses were smart, all of them were so smart. Maybe Mycie and Lockie wouldn’t want him for a brother if he wasn’t?

For a moment, listening to wavering voice, Mycroft was half convinced that his little brother would curl into his arms, as he had when he was small.  Before Mycroft had left for university, and life had gotten so much busier. 

Once, he’d been able to count on a weekly call from Martin; and he and Sherlock would drag the phone into the kitchen, and turn on the speaker so they could both speak to him at the same time.  

It had all been so much easier, then.  Now Sherlock scarcely talked to him, and Mycroft was nearly finished university-- and after that?  When he had even less time than he did now?

He didn’t know.  

Martin gulped a breath and pressed his skinny frame back into the corner by the hearth, his face splotched with red under his freckles.  “I-I... I--”

“What happened, Merry?”

With a quiet sigh, Mycroft sank down to a knee on the hearth rug, and experimentally held out an arm to his little brother.  They’d been children together; but with Merry in elementary school, and Mycroft nearly finished university, the decade between them had never seemed so large.  

Childhood to adulthood, and Sherlock was still trapped somewhere in the middle.

“F-failed m-my… My test.  Math test.” 

Like a shot, tears welling up again, Martin bolted into his brother’s offered arms, and buried his flushed, damp face against the side of his neck. “I tried!  But she gave me the test and my heart was beating so fast, and I couldn’t think, and I got all dizzy and I almost threw up and--”

“Oh Merry…”  

It wasn’t the math-- Martin had a head for sums and figures that astounded even the Holmeses.  A singular brilliance that rivalled Mycroft’s knack for languages. 

No, it was the test.  The pass-fail pressure of it, with all the numbers staring up at him from the page in a way that made Martin panic.  

Martin was taller than the last time Mycroft had seen him, and with a wobble, and a thump, he overbalanced and sat back on the hearth rug, his brother still huddled tight in his arms.  And he could get up-- maybe he even  _ should  _ get up, because he was seventeen now, and Martin had four parents he could talk to.

But he didn’t.

Wouldn’t.  Not ever.

Not when his brothers needed him.

Martin was gangly, all elbows and knees, and looking more like Sherlock every day, when he snuggled finally into Mycroft’s lap.  “I tried! I did… I tried so hard… I promise, I promise, I  _ promise _ …  Don’t make me go...” 

He couldn’t make everything better, but for a while, Mycroft sat on the floor with Martin in his arms, and smoothed circles over his back to soothe his ragged sobs.  Slowly they rocked until Martin’s tears ebbed into unsteady, sniffling breaths, and he plucked miserably at the wet patch on the front of his big brother’s tidy blue button-down.

“Sorry…”

“It will dry.”

There was a pause, and Martin snuffled a little against his chest, “This wouldn’t happen to Lock.  Lock’s  _ smart _ .”

“As are you.  Test anxiety doesn’t change your mind, Merry.  You’re very smart, and we’re proud that you’re our brother.  No more of that silliness, do you understand? We’re going to do our best to help you.”  Mycroft paused a beat, and rested his cheek on Martin’s head; his soft, ginger curls mirroring Mycroft’s own.  “And when you get older, you’re going to help us. Because we’re brothers, and that’s what we do.”

_ He would help them _ .  With a solemn nod, Martin pillowed his head against his brother’s shoulder, secure in the tight circle of his arms.

One day, he’d be able to cope with everything himself, and he’d be able to take care of Sherlock and Mycroft, and his parents.  

He would.

He could be brave, too.


End file.
